


Caeneus

by Blondtaire



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Grantaire (Les Misérables), Bruises, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Marijuana, One Shot, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Trans Enjolras, Trans Grantaire, Trans Male Character, heavy emphasis on the comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:07:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29577945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blondtaire/pseuds/Blondtaire
Summary: “I have a question,” Enjolras said calmly. “It’s personal. Is that alright?” Grantaire merely nodded. Enjolras took in a deep breath, hot shame rising in his marble-stiff face. “You’ve been in an abusive relationship before, correct?”---Enjolras and Léon seemed perfect together. They were revolutionaries, comrades, lovers who could always keep up with each other like no one else.That is, until Enjolras showed up at Grantaire's doorstep one night, soaked from the rain and bruised from his lover's violent outburst.
Relationships: Enjolras & Grantaire (Les Misérables), Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 62





	Caeneus

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to write some hurt/comfort with casually trans Enjoltaire vibes and Greek lore references. So that's what this is.

When Enjolras had first met Léon, everyone was ecstatic. Léon was an upstanding gentleman, a revolutionary at heart, a ride-or-die companion with a singular focus on righting the wrongs of the world. The perfect partner for Enjolras.

Maybe a bit too perfect. At least, that was how Grantaire saw it. No one else agreed with him on that matter; as far as they were concerned, Léon was practically made for Enjolras, and they were so happy that their friend had found love. It all struck Grantaire as odd, but long talks with Joly and Bossuet about the vague feelings of badness Grantaire felt toward Léon had him convinced that it was just jealousy. Well, not jealousy -- jealousy was a fear of being replaced. Grantaire didn’t think he held enough of a place in Enjolras’s life to be replaced.

Nevertheless, Grantaire tried to be happy. Enjolras was his friend, even if they didn’t get along all that well, and he wanted to see his friend doing well. When he saw the absolute beam on the blond’s face whenever Léon entered the room, Grantaire tried to convince himself with a mantra: _Léon makes Enjolras happy. I enjoy seeing Enjolras happy. I’m happy that Enjolras is with Léon._ It didn’t really work, but it made Grantaire feel like he was at least putting in the effort.

Then Enjolras started spending less time with Les Amis de l’ABC. He still ran the meetings, but he didn’t stay afterward to chat. He had a little more patience with Grantaire’s snide remarks, but Grantaire didn’t have the heart to pester the blond anymore. He mostly just sat in the back, basking in the light of Enjolras’s glow until the meeting ended and Enjolras practically dashed out of the Musain with Léon.

After a while, Enjolras moved out of the apartment he shared with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. And the two didn’t see any problems with that, although they were sad to know they wouldn’t be able to spend as much time with their close friend. They still kept up with each other, for a while. Then Enjolras stopped calling. Then Enjolras stopped answering calls. Then their text conversations got shorter and shorter.

By the time Enjolras missed a meeting, it was too late. He was too far gone, unable to talk about anything but Léon. Handsome, loyal, caring, perfect Léon. Grantaire had no choice but to stop seeking Enjolras out, because hearing one more word about Léon was going to make him vomit, drunk or otherwise.

Oh sure, sometimes Enjolras would meet with a member of the old gang, but only if Léon was hovering over his shoulder for every minute of it. He could call or text, but not if it was a “date night” -- and it was usually a “date night.” Enjolras insisted that he still cared about the revolution above all else; he was just having private conversations with Léon about it, since he knew they were both equally invested in The Cause. As if no one else was. As if Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Prouvaire, Feuilly, and all the rest weren’t invested enough in The Cause for Enjolras’s liking anymore.

Enjolras began to change. Grantaire had only seen glimpses of the man in recent weeks, but the differences were obvious. He started wearing make-up. He spoke more quietly. He wore clothes that his boyfriend had picked out for him. And last week, they announced their engagement on Facebook.

Well, Grantaire was sick of it. Enjolras had become an entirely different person, and he seemed to have no interest in keeping Grantaire in his life. Not that he ever had, but at least back in the day, Grantaire could have held onto his suspension of disbelief. Now the rug was pulled out from under him, and he was just going to have to accept it and move on.

He was not doing a good job at it. This was yet another night trapped in his fishbowl of an apartment, with too little money in his pocket to go to the bar -- probably because he’d blown it all on going to the bar last weekend, after the engagement announcement. Besides, it was too rainy to go out properly. That said, Grantaire wasn’t entirely alone with his thoughts; he had Mary Jane.

Taking a puff from his blunt, Grantaire hit the television remote looking for something stupid to watch. Adult Swim was a classic, but he was more interested in something real -- something that would make him feel better about his own life by showing him how fucked up other people’s lives were.

Finally, he settled on a show about hoarders. Not that he was Mr. Neat and Simple Living, but he was a far cry from dysfunctional. Well, in that particular regard, at least. As he ripped open a bag of chips, Grantaire decided that this was going to be a good night, unrequited affections be damned.

He had just taken a second hit from hit blunt when he heard the sound of the doorbell. Grantaire grumbled his confusion; who would be at his doorstep in this weather? At first, he considered that it might be a door-to-door salesman, though that was unusual given how late it was. He chose to ignore the bell.

Before he could settle back into lazy-night mode, the doorbell chimed again. Grantaire groaned. He counted to ten, then forced himself up from the couch. Hopefully this would be quick. His feet barely lifted off of the ground as he sauntered over to the doorway. He peered through the peephole, but it was too dark and wet for him to see much more than a red blur.

Grantaire sighed, allowing himself a moment to prepare for the ensuing impromptu social interaction. Then, he opened the door.

It was Enjolras.

It was Enjolras like Grantaire had never seen Enjolras before. He was hunched in on himself, shivering. His face was halfway obscured by a hoodie that definitely wasn’t waterproof, and he was drenched to show for it. What disturbed Grantaire the most, however, was the look on Enjolras’s face -- a delicate frown, blue eyes clouded with fear.

Grantaire scratched the back of his neck, unable to make sense of the situation. “Enjolras, are you alright? Did something happen? I can take you back home to Léon, if you want. He’ll know what to--”

“No.” With that soft-spoken word, Grantaire stopped in his tracks. Enjolras’s shaky breathing could be heard as he continued. “Please, don’t.”

Grantaire was really worried now. “Oh. Okay.”

“May I come in?” Enjolras asked. The question was so full of hesitation that Grantaire’s chest hurt. Was Enjolras worried that Grantaire, of all people, wasn’t going to let him in?

“Yeah, man,” Grantaire replied, trying to match Enjolras’s volume level. “Of course you can. Come on in.”

“Thank you.”

Grantaire stepped aside. Enjolras looked conflicted before finally stepping inside.

“Sorry,” Enjolras murmured. “I’m trying not to get your floor wet.”

“Dude, it’s literally fine,” Grantaire replied, and his stomach dropped at the audible relief in Enjolras’s sigh. Since when did his words hold that much weight for the blond? Grantaire shook his head; he had to snap out of it. He’d gotten two good hits from the blunt, but he wasn’t feeling the effects of it at all. He just felt confused and anxious. Then Grantaire noticed -- despite just having been told, he was too concerned to have actually noticed -- that Enjolras was dripping all over. “Here, let’s get that coat off of you. It’s not doing much good now.”

Enjolras warily nodded. He slowly pulled the hoodie upward, pausing at the last second before removing it entirely.

Now that Enjolras’s face was fully revealed, Grantaire knew something unsavory was going on. It hadn’t been obvious earlier, but Enjolras had a marked bruise on his forehead.

Grantaire’s eyes went wide. He couldn’t get his voice above a half-whisper. “What happened?”

Enjolras took his time before answering. He carefully began to fold the hoodie. Each small fold took what felt like ages to complete, and each passing moment of silence made Grantaire’s stomach recede further into his knees.

“I’ll put that in the dryer for you,” Grantaire said, if only to break the silence. “And I’ll get you some dry clothes. You are absolutely soaked.”

Enjolras merely nodded. He handed the hoodie to Grantaire without making eye contact, instead keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the floor a few feet ahead of him. Grantaire gently ushered him to the bathroom before placing the hoodie in the dryer. After making sure that Enjolras didn’t have a concussion -- he wasn’t showing any symptoms, but Grantaire would still have to be on high alert -- Grantaire went to his room, digging around for some clean clothes.

Anything he pulled out was going to be oversized on the blond, if not in width then in height. Unfortunately Grantaire was a bit of a mess, and anything that might have looked halfway decent on the blond was piled up in a laundry mountain somewhere, so he made do with a t-shirt bearing the words _I Speak Fluent Sarcasm_ and a pair of yoga pants.

Grantaire returned to the bathroom and handed the clothes to Enjolras. Enjolras hesitated upon examining the shirt. “I can pick out a different one if you want,” Grantaire offered awkwardly, but Enjolras shook his head.

“That’s alright. Thank you.”

“Yeah, man. No problem at all.”

With that, Grantaire closed the bathroom door so that Enjolras could change. Grantaire paced his way into the living room, not sure what to make of all this. He turned off the television, which was still blaring statistics about the dangers of a messy house, so that he could try to think straight. Next, he went into the kitchenette with its creaky floorboards and single, two-seat table. Enjolras liked coffee. At least, Grantaire assumed that hadn’t changed. The smell of coffee might also help Grantaire clear his head. He got a pot started.

He had to take inventory of the situation. Enjolras has been boasting to his friends for months now about his perfect life and his perfect husband-to-be with their perfect revolution plan. Then, after not being able to shut up about his awesome partner, suddenly this happens. Enjolras is at his doorstep, cold and bruised, and he has made it crystal clear that he does not want to go back to Léon, even though Léon is theoretically the most equipped to handle Enjolras in a state of crisis. Something very bad must have happened. Grantaire just hoped that it wasn't the suspicion that was creeping up on him, the one that had been boiling in his guts since the first day he laid eyes on Enjolras’s too-good-to-be-true perfect match.

Then Enjolras came out of the bathroom, and when Grantaire turned to look at him, the dread building inside of him spiked. Enjolras’s arms were red with thin scabs, like they’d been scratched up by some animal. His wrists were a faint yellow. Grantaire cautiously beckoned Enjolras over, and the blond took a seat at the table.

Grantaire sat across from him. “Enjolras, you’re going to need to tell me what happened. Are you ready to do that?”

Something about Enjolras was still off, but he was clearly working hard to hold his composure. He had always been good at that. Grantaire used to make a game out of trying to pierce through Enjolras’s composure, to get a reaction out of him -- now Grantaire was afraid of breaking it.

“I have a question,” Enjolras said calmly. “It’s personal. Is that alright?” Grantaire merely nodded. Enjolras took in a deep breath, hot shame rising in his marble-stiff face. “You’ve been in an abusive relationship before, correct?”

There it was. Grantaire buried his face in his hands. This couldn’t be happening. Not so suddenly, not like this. “Oh, Enjolras…”

Seeing his distress, Enjolras put a comforting hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. It felt backward; Enjolras was able to keep his calm in a situation like this, at least outwardly, while Grantaire couldn’t hide his despair. This couldn’t be real. But then, hadn’t Grantaire been so good at saving face when he was in that relationship a couple years back? Hadn’t he done such a great job of hiding it? He should’ve won an Oscar for how in-love he still pretended to be just before things were found out. Clearly, it was not out of the realm of the stoic, stone-faced revolutionary leader in front of him to put on similar airs.

Enjolras continued. “I’m wondering how you knew.”

Grantaire lowered his hands to make eye contact. “How I…?”

“How did you know that the relationship was abusive?” asked Enjolras. “It’s clear to me that it was. It was clear to all of us after we found out what she had been doing to you. But I’ve read so many articles on abuse and the many forms it can take, and after all of that, it's just not clear. How do I know if Léon…?” The rest of the question was unspoken. Grantaire heard it loud and clear.

The cynic released a breath without ever realizing he’d been holding it. Though perhaps to call him “the cynic” was not apropos for the moment -- right now, he had to be something other than the cynic. The mediator. The helper. The friend. This would be hard. “Enjolras,” Grantaire began with utmost care, “did Léon give you those scratches and bruises?”

“Yes,” replied Enjolras. His face was red; Grantaire understood the sense of humiliation very well. “It hasn’t happened in a while, but things were difficult today. I know he has some issues with anger management, and I’ve been trying to avoid his triggers while helping him learn to cope. But I slipped up. And then he…” Enjolras swallowed. “...Slipped up.”

Grantaire shook his head. “Enjolras. That’s not a slip-up. You shouldn’t have to walk on eggshells to avoid getting beaten up by your partner. Hell, you shouldn’t have to do _anything_ to avoid that; it’s a given in any loving relationship that you do not beat your partner.”

Enjolras looked down. “Right. I know that, in the part of me that’s sensible, because that’s what I’ve been told all my life. And I thought I believed it, after my mother…” he trailed off. “But it doesn’t feel clear-cut. Most days, I can feel so much love from him. You should see the brilliance of it; it radiates from every pore. Just not when he’s like this.”

Grantaire was at a loss for words, stunned by how Enjolras managed to wax poetic about the man who’d hit him in the head. He understood it all too well, but he couldn’t believe it coming from someone else. This was something that would take time to deconstruct; for now, he’d have to come at the situation from another angle.

“You said this is the first time that this has happened in a while. What happened to your arms and wrists? Those don’t look new.”

Enjolras cupped one of his wrists in the opposite hand, observing the canary yellow tint. Grantaire noticed that there was still a ring on Enjolras's finger. “These...are from the bedroom.”

Grantaire’s brows furrowed. “Oh, God. Enjolras, has he ever…?”

“That’s one of the reasons it’s difficult for me to parse out whether or not this is a bad relationship,” Enjolras continued. Grantaire’s head spun, because _of course_ it was a bad relationship. That much had been established. “At risk of being vulgar, he and I make all kinds of love. And it’s good. I feel safe when we do that.”

Grantaire wasn’t convinced. “All kinds of love…?” He leaned forward, and Enjolras leaned away in response. “Look. I don’t want to pry into the details, but I need to make sure, because...well, I know you’re dysphoric, and you used to have very firm limits surrounding...certain kinds of love. I just want to make sure that he hasn’t been breaking those.”

Enjolras didn’t respond. He wouldn’t even look Grantaire in the eye. Distantly, Grantaire knew that the coffee machine had signaled its readiness, but he felt like he was glued to his seat.

“I think I know now,” Enjolras finally murmured. He sounded as though he was admitting defeat. He gingerly slid the ring off of his finger, placing it down on the table as an offering to some distant god. “It’s an abusive relationship.”

Enjolras closed his eyes for a long moment, face turned to the side. Grantaire could see the subtle tremble of his lip. He placed a gentle hand over Enjolras’s, and the latter finally hung his head downward.

“It’s alright,” Grantaire crooned. “You don’t have to be strong here. You’re safe. You’re not going back to him.”

“It would have been perfect,” Enjolras whispered, shakiness seeping into his voice. “No, not perfect; nothing’s perfect. But it would have been something truly great. I’ve never believed in soulmates, but he challenged that.”

“That’s what they do,” Grantaire replied sympathetically. “They craft their persona around what they think you want the most, just so they can get close enough to change you into what they want you to be instead.”

Enjolras slowly looked up. “What did you want the most?”

Grantaire sighed, aiming his eyes toward the cracked ceiling. “An artsy type. Not pretentious about it, though. A real Devil-may-care attitude. Someone who didn’t mind me drinking and getting high all the time. And, I hate to say this, but what I really wanted -- what I thought I _needed_ \-- was a Manic Pixie Dream Girl to get me off the couch and keep me out of the bars. And that’s what she was, for a while.” He chuckled bitterly. “Of course, the only reason she didn’t mind me getting sloshed was because it made it easier to get me in bed with her.”

Enjolras slowly nodded in understanding. “I think -- I think I just wanted someone who could keep up with me. Now he’s going so fast that I’m the one left behind.”

“They’ll do that to you,” Grantaire remarked. When he thought Enjolras was steady enough for Grantaire to break their small physical contact, he got up and poured a cup of coffee.

“You know,” Grantaire continued, “the Greeks have a lot of stories about assault leading to transformation. Some transform into laurel trees to escape it; others aren’t so lucky, and it’s only after facing such wretched acts that they get turned into, like, gorgons or men.” Grantaire wanted to smack himself; even now, he couldn't shut up about his Greek myths.

Enjolras’s brows furrowed. “Men?”

Grantaire nodded. “That’s the story of Caeneus.”

“How does that one go?”

“Oh,” Grantaire vocalized. If Enjolras was interested, maybe this wasn't such a bad topic to settle on, after all -- or was he just digging himself deeper? “Well, here's the gist of it: Caeneus was assigned female at birth. He got abducted by Poseidon, who committed the unforgivable act against Caeneus. Then Caeneus was promised a wish. He asked to be transformed into a man, so that none might penetrate him. He was done one better: not only was he made a man, but he was given impenetrable skin and legendary power that turned him into a mythic hero. An Argonaut, in fact.”

He placed the full coffee cup in front of Enjolras, who was listening to the story with an inscrutable look on his face. He continued. “Of course, the narrative is a bit different than it would be now. For one thing, we know tragedies don’t turn people trans, and for another, we know that man can just as easily be victimized. The impenetrable skin thing sounds nice sometimes, though. Wish I’d gotten that out of it; I wouldn’t be so afraid to play paintball if I knew it wouldn’t hurt.”

Enjolras smiled subtly down at his coffee cup, a spot of hope amidst the gloom clouding his features. Grantaire exhaled in relief. Finally, Enjolras spoke up: “I never knew that stories about us went that far back.”

“Oh, I’ve picked up on a couple more.” Grantaire returned to his seat. “There’s Iphis, for one. Then Tiresias, who didn’t seem to mind being one or the other.”

“I wish the transformation was that easy,” Enjolras commented. “Get a god’s blessing and suddenly your whole body has changed to reflect who you are. Meanwhile I’ve been saving up just for top surgery, and now all of those funds are under Léon’s name.”

Grantaire’s brows furrowed as he was pulled back into the matter at hand. “That asshole,” he seethed. “We’ll fix that. We’ve got, what, four law students in our friend group? There’s got to be something we can do.”

“I appreciate the sentiment,” Enjolras replied, which was his way of politely saying he didn’t think anything could be done. He took a swig of the coffee; it had always impressed Grantaire how Enjolras could drink scalding hot coffee without his throat disintegrating. Maybe he didn’t even notice how hot it was in his current state.

“I mean it,” Grantaire asserted, ire growing the more he thought of what Léon had done. Enjolras flinched involuntarily at the change in tone. Grantaire softened immediately. “Would you like me to call Combeferre? I can bring him and Courfeyrac over. They’ll be better at this than I am.”

Enjolras’s face flushed red once more. “I’m not ready to tell them.”

“Alright. But we’ll have to tell them sooner or later,” Grantaire said, to which Enjolras hesitantly nodded. “I have to admit, I’m a little surprised you didn’t go to them.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, they’re closer to you than I am. In fact, from what I understand, you don’t like me all that much.”

“That’s not true,” Enjolras replied without missing a beat. He sighed. “It’s true that we’ve had a lot of disagreements in the past, and I haven’t always appreciated your company. But when Léon -- when I stopped going to the meetings, I realized the strangest thing. I missed our arguments. You challenged me, and it always made me think. Sometimes, it forced me to accept things I’d been too stubborn to entertain. That’s part of why I came to you, I think. I knew you would force me to accept that Léon is abusive, and I needed that.”

“Enjolras…” Grantaire murmured. The blonde reached for Grantaire’s hands, and Grantaire let him take them. Enjolras’s hands were soft, but very cold; he was glad to have Grantaire’s warmth surrounding them.

“I was looking for someone to keep up with me,” Enjolras admitted. “But you’ve always been able to keep up with me. Just not in the way I expected.”

Once their eyes met, Grantaire couldn’t pull his away. Enjolras wasn’t smiling, not really, but he looked confident and adamant -- more like himself than Grantaire had yet to see that evening. “Enjolras, are you saying…?”

Enjolras shook his head. “No. Well, maybe, but not yet. I’m going to need some time to figure out who I am; it seems I’ve forgotten even that. But I want you to know that I appreciate your company, and I’m terribly sorry for never having expressed that.”

“Please, don’t apologize,” said Grantaire. “You don’t have to apologize for anything. Don’t even think about that right now, alright? For now, just...take a moment. Whatever you need to do to start healing. You can stay at my place tonight. I’ll let you sleep in tomorrow while I call Combeferre. Would that be alright with you?”

Enjolras thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Of course. Is there anything you need right now?”

Enjolras opened his mouth, but hesitated. The hesitation was something that seemed alien on Enjolras, and it continually reminded Grantaire that there were things that were going to take time to work through before anything could really be okay again.

“You can say it,” Grantaire coaxed. “I won’t judge.”

“You said that there are other Greek stories about people like us. I’d like to hear some of them.”

Grantaire found a small smile playing at the edges of his lips, in spite of the dire circumstances. “I can do that. How about the story of Iphis? That’s another female-to-male transformation.”

“Yes, please.”

“Okay, well…” Grantaire scratched the back of his head. It had been a long time since he had told this story, and he certainly hadn’t been expecting to share it with an eagerly listening Enjolras. “Iphis was assigned female at birth, but his father had told his mother that if they were to have a female child, then he would slay the infant. So Iphis’s mother dressed him up as a man and raised him that way. And honestly, nothing really interesting happened in the years of him growing up that way, until he met the love of his life: a woman named Ianthe…”

So continued Grantaire into the night, for as long as Enjolras was willing and able to listen. He even managed another shy smile out of the blond, which put some sort of faith in Grantaire that hadn’t been there for a long time. Faith in what, he couldn’t say, but Enjolras always seemed to manage to do that to him. Things weren’t okay; tomorrow there would be a long, heart-wrenching phone call and several people at Grantaire’s place trying to figure out what to do. But there would be people there for Enjolras. Not just Grantaire, but seven or so of the best people Grantaire and Enjolras knew.

And if Grantaire, in all of his messy glory, could manage to keep Enjolras feeling a little closer to okay right now, then that gave him faith, too. Later, there would be tears. There would be trauma to sort through and possessions at Léon’s house to figure out how to get back. But tonight, in Grantaire’s little fishbowl of an apartment, he could tell stories while Enjolras listened and sipped his coffee, looking at the cynic with incomparable warmth. Enjolras could be Caeneus, and Grantaire could be his impenetrable skin.

And right now, that was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure, I wrote this in the middle of the night like I was having a waking fever dream. Hope it turned out okay!


End file.
